The Singing Telegram
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Kurt plans months ahead to play hooky from Vogue on Valentine's Day, in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable - an obnoxious onslaught of unwanted gifts from his ex, who won't take no for an answer. But one gift in particular, Isabelle makes a point to send ahead to Kurt's loft, with a few choice alterations…for reasons. Kadam. Kurt H. Adam C.


**A/N: Written as a Valentine's Day present to the wonderful, lovely, and amazing lovejoybliss, who deserves all the love 3**

 **Warning for mention of Klaine and Blaine, not Klaine or Blaine friendly.**

"No, Isabelle," Kurt says, pouring himself a mug of freshly brewed Italian Roast, squeezing his eyes shut as he answers the same question for the third time, "I can't come in today. I told you, I'm sick."

 _Sick and tired of the smell of bullshit_ , he thinks, putting the coffee carafe down and reaching for his French Vanilla Creamer. Mixing Italy and France in a single mug. There has to be some sort of faux pas in there somewhere.

"But, _Kurt_ ," Isabelle whines, "you asked for this day off months ago."

"Yes," Kurt agrees, "because I knew months ago that I would be sick today, without a shadow of a doubt."

"This doesn't have anything to do with it being Valentine's Day today, does it?" she asks.

"Absolutely," Kurt admits. "I told you when I started working there full time that I would only request two days off a year – my dad's birthday and Valentine's Day."

"But, Kurt…"

"Non-negotiable," he says, stirring his coffee. "Now, I love you, but I'm standing my ground." He takes a sip. _Perfection_. "And why do you want me in so badly, anyway? It's not like you and Chase can't run the creepy office Valentine's Day festivities without me. You only need two people to play _Pin the Bulge on Nick Jonas_."

"We can," she says," but just so you know, you've gotten three gigantic floral arrangements here already, and what has to be the biggest heart-shaped box of chocolates I have ever seen, and for a woman who spent three days at a spa in Hershey, that's saying something."

"Ugh!" Kurt groans. "And you didn't have the forethought to return them to sender?" Kurt knows that that garbage can have only come from one source, and that said source will read something into it if the confirmation emails for all of his unwanted presents are marked _received_ and not _refused_.

"I had nothing to do with it. They get signed for at the security desk," Isabelle pouts. " _But_ …since they're already here…"

"Have at 'em," Kurt says with a wave of his hand, dismissing the angst of Blaine's Valentine's Day offerings to the universe. "Along with anything else that comes, as long as the card is signed _Blaine Anderson_."

"And what about the others?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow. " _Are_ there any others?"

"May-be," Isabelle says slyly. "There could be one or two…or four…"

"Leave those on my desk," Kurt says. "And text me pics of the cards. I want to post them Facebook."

"Gotcha, chief," Isabelle says. "Oh, plus, you missed a rather, shall I say, _dapper_ singing telegram."

"Did I?" Kurt says with a sneer. He can't stand that word _dapper_. That poor schlub. What costume did they force him to wear if Isabelle can describe him as _dapper_?

Blaine probably paid extra to put him in a cardigan and a bowtie.

Thank God he stayed home.

"Anything else?" Isabelle asks.

"Yeah," Kurt says with a vindictive smirk. "Enjoy the chocolates."

"Will do," Isabelle says. "Ciao."

"Ciao." Kurt hangs up his phone, turns off the ringer, drops it into his vintage beehive cookie jar, and puts the whole damn thing in the refrigerator. He's not going to have anyone or anything interrupt his day of peace, quiet, and romance avoidance.

Not again.

It's been Blaine's tradition to barrage Kurt's office at _Vogue_ with all sorts of worthless crap lo these many years, so Kurt figured that if he's not there, he doesn't have to see it. Hence the vacation.

A lot of the people Kurt works with think it's ridiculous, playing sick to avoid flowers and candy.

Kurt sees it as an all too necessary mental survival technique.

Kurt carries his mug of coffee - an exceptionally made cup, if he does say so himself - to the sofa, sits down in front of his flat screen, and turns it on. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, feeling his muscles unwind, and prepares for his day of relaxation to begin.

 _Knock knock knock._

Kurt blinks. He turns down the volume on his television, and waits.

Did he just hear…?

No, it can't be…

 _Knock knock knock._

"Shit!" Kurt grumbles. "What the hell?"

Kurt gets up off his sofa and heads for the door, answering only on the off chance that it's something extremely important, like his father visiting, or a notice that some distant relative died and left him a fortune in their will.

"Who is it?" Kurt asks through the locked door.

"Singing telegram for Kurt Hummel," a voice calls through the door.

 _Crap!_ Kurt thinks. _He figured me out. Covered all his bases this time around. That asshole!_

"Kurt Hummel's not here. He moved," Kurt adds for good measure, "about a year ago…to Paris."

"Are you sure?" the man asks, the hint of an English sounding accent coloring his words, difficult to discern through the thick metal door of Kurt's loft. "Because a Ms. Wright down at _Vogue_ told me he lived here."

Kurt's jaw drops. Now it made sense, her calling, keeping him on the phone, asking him repeatedly to come in. She wanted to make sure he'd be there to receive Blaine's obnoxious proxy serenade. That little snipe!

"Um…you don't think that, perhaps, I can leave a message, do you?" the man asks, and even though Kurt can't be entirely certain, he thinks he can hear the man's teeth chattering. It's been raining for the past three days straight, and Kurt did hear something on the news about a cold front moving in, hanging around a while. Considering the kind of costumes these companies make their singers wear (last Christmas, a singing telegram came to the _Vogue_ office dressed in red, sparkly, skin-tight booty shorts and a sash – it was sexy and all, but the poor man's nipples could cut glass) the man standing outside Kurt's door could be dying of pneumonia. He's only a minion of Blaine's evil plot, a pawn of the oppressor. There's no reason to let die him out on the doorstep.

Besides, the more the man talks in that accent, the cuter he sounds, and Kurt's too curious to see if he has a face to match his voice.

"Hold on," Kurt says, unlocking his loft door and sliding it open, "I'm com…ing…"

Kurt's eyes go wide when he sees the spectacle standing on his doorstep – about Kurt's height, honey blond hair, sky blue eyes, cheeks rosy from the cold, skin slightly damp from the rain falling outside. He's wearing an ankle length trench, unbuttoned all the way, and the piece de resistance – he's shirtless, and sporting a pair of ultra-shiny vinyl shorts.

Did Blaine actually order him that way? Because that doesn't seem like a gift Blaine would send to Kurt – one he'd actually enjoy instead of another Godforsaken Gilmore Girls boxed set. Didn't the man remember that he'd already sent Kurt _three_? How many did he think Kurt needed?

"Wow," Kurt says, his eyes glued to those shorts, cursing the cold for forcing what's inside them to hide.

"Uh, yeah," the man says, pulling his coat shut, "I apologize. This isn't the costume I originally had on."

"Oh?" Kurt says, genuinely interested.

"Yeah. When I stopped by your office" – he starts and yes, God, he does have a British accent – "your boss, Ms. Wright, accidentally poured this huge mug of iced coffee down the front of my blazer…"

 _Oh God Al-fucking-mighty!_ Kurt thinks. It's worse than he thought. Blaine sent him a singing telegram dressed in a prep school uniform!

"…and just soaked my whole costume through. She said they had something in a safe I could borrow..."

"Vault," Kurt corrects, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. "The vault."

"Right," the man says, smiling bashfully at Kurt's shameless obsession with the single open sliver in his coat. "Anyway, she said these shorts were all they had in my size."

 _Oh, my sweet summer child,_ Kurt thinks, finding it absolutely adorable that this man actually believed that in the whole of _Vogue_ , all they had in his size was a single pair of vinyl short shorts.

On a tangent, when this encounter is over, he has to jump on to the Barney's website and buy Isabelle that diamond tennis bracelet she's been hinting at for Christmas.

Ms. Wright's been a good girl, so Christmas is coming early. Ho-ho-ho.

"So, can I leave a message?" the man asks.

"No need," Kurt says. " _I'm_ Kurt Hummel."

"Oh. But I thought you said…"

"I get a lot of weird people stopping by," Kurt explains. "Can't be too careful in this neighborhood."

"Right." The man nods, as easily accepting of that explanation as he probably was about the shorts. "So, would it be alright if I got started?"

"Started?" Kurt asks, his mind having gone in so many different places during this man's monologue that he doesn't even remember why he's here anymore.

"With my song," he chuckles. "Can I sing the…"

"Oh, yes, yes, right," Kurt says, motioning offhandedly at the man's vinyl covered crotch. "Just, go ahead." The corner of his mouth pulls up in a wicked grin. "You have my _full_ attention."

The man chuckles nervously after the long look Kurt gives him, from toe to head and back again. He clears his throat and launches into the song.

"You think I'm pretty without any makeup on,

You think I'm funny when I tell the punchline wrong,

I know you get me, so I let my walls come down…down…"

Kurt waves his hand, his face automatically pinching in pain.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop," Kurt interrupts, finally cutting him short at the verse _Now every February you'll be my valentine, valentine._

"What?" the man asks, worried. "Why…why did you stop me? Did you…not like that?"

"What's your name?" Kurt asks, holding out his hand for the man to shake, making a formal introduction.

"My name?" The man seems surprised that Kurt's asking. "Adam," he says. "It's Adam. Adam Crawford."

"Adam Crawford," Kurt repeats. "Just so you know, Adam, the man who hired you to come sing this tired, old love song to me – we're not getting back together. Not in a million years."

"Really?" Adam says, a charming smidge of a half-grin lifting his mouth at the corner.

"Really," Kurt says, catching on to that slow burning smile. "So, instead of finishing that song, do you think you'd like to come in for a cup of coffee? I mean, it's gotta be what?" Kurt's eyes wander down the man's body, bouncing from goose bump to goose bump on his partially exposed chest. "Thirty degrees outside? And those shorts you're wearing" – Kurt hums – "are really, _really_ short."

"Well, it's forty degrees," Adam corrects, "but that's still really cold, you know, considering the fact that it's raining."

"I can see that." Kurt swallows as he examines the man's shoulders and neck, dotted in small drops of water. "I just brewed a fresh pot, and I have a towel, probably a pair of pants that might fit," he mentions with a bit of reluctance. "Won't you come in? Sit a bit? Dry off…warm up…"

A glimmer in Adam's eye catches Kurt's attention, and Kurt gets the impression that this cute, sweet, good-natured man might not be quite as naïve as he first seemed.

"I…guess I can do that," he says, taking a step inside. Kurt moves aside to let him in, the breath catching in his throat as Adam starts removing his coat, slowly letting it slide down his muscular arms, skirt over an even more muscular back. Kurt gets a first glimpse of those shorts from the rear and he nearly moans out loud.

"Wonderful," Kurt says in a breathy voice. "Marvelous." He fumbles for the handle to his door and slides it shut, making a mental note to see if he can find a necklace to go with that bracelet.


End file.
